


and the years come and go

by sadsparties



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Growing Old Together, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22479916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: “He thinks he can make up a plaster tonight that will keep them shut, until we can get them healing again. There's time. (No.)There's time.”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 22
Kudos: 156





	and the years come and go

i.

Francis is known among his peers as many things: a stern captain, a diligent scientist, an indifferent speller, but never an ingrate. He looks away from the singular bed in the room and turns to their apologetic host. “You have our gratitude, Doctor Rae.”

John Rae nods solemnly. Francis has come to know that he is a man of few words and fewer faults. “This household is honoured to have you, Captain,” Rae says. He steals a glance at James tottering dangerously on his own feet. “And the commander as well.”

After Rae has left and Francis has cooed and coddled at James to perform his nightly ablutions, he examines their bed. Really, it is a luxury. Hammocks have not agreed with their bodies after months on hard stone, and Rae has been thoughtful to provide them with fleece sheets. Francis endeavours to thank him in the morning.

The bed puffs up as James dives gracelessly onto it, asleep the moment his face hit the pillow. Francis latches his eye on James’s nightshirt, which has rolled up to expose the small of his back, and heaves a deep sigh. He pulls the blanket from under James’s body and spreads it over his limbs, covers him from neck to toe. 

When they have both settled in for the night and the herons have ceased their singing, Francis is awakened by a weight pressing on his leg. His eyes open in an instant and instinctively look to James. He is soundly asleep, lying prone and face turned to the side of the bed; his back rises and falls with his breaths; all things ordinary, if not for the leg thrown on Francis’s knees.

“James?” he ventures. Nothing. He slowly nudges James’s leg until it settles on its proper side of the bed. 

A quarter of an hour later, Francis gets punched in the face. 

“Hell’s teeth!” he hisses under his breath. Francis palms his jaw and utters choice phrases that prove his years at sea. He rolls over angrily to confront his perpetrator, only to find James already facing him, a bit of tongue peeking from between his teeth.

The image is so startling, so unexpected, that Francis’s breath catches at his throat. A thin curtain of hair has fallen over James’s forehead, grey streaks marring the sea of brown. His left hand rests between their chests, as if inviting Francis to reach out and hold it.

They have shared a bed before, most comforts having been abandoned midway to lighten the load. Francis has slept beside James under a hastily arranged tent, under the light of the Aurora, under the flickering oil lamps of the _Enterprise,_ but it is only after being eased of the burden of Franklin’s expedition that his thoughts are finally free to realize one thing: 

Christ, James Fitzjames is a vision.

When James retracts his arm for another blow, Francis hastily secures it at his side. He keeps his hand there, palm bound to James’s wrist, until the herons resume their singing.

_A vision,_ he thinks, as the first signs of daylight form a halo around James’s head. Perhaps one day he will say it aloud.

  
  
  


ii.

James thinks that they would make a rather fine painting, noble and symbolic, although the subject may be too dreary to display in sunny drawing rooms: the Second, battle-ready with cape and armour at his side; his First, bedridden and dueling an unseen enemy.

James hopes he is winning, for all their sakes.

He had not planned on being here—the ships are a good half-mile apart—but Irving’s report on stores had left his officers with dark expressions, and some form of urgency had moved James to summon Sir John’s old faith and bolster them with a minor revelry.

Mr. Blanky had reassured him that he was doing right by the men. It was a minor feat to have his confidence, if not his friendship, but a lingering unease had crept upon James as preparations for their festivities came to the fore. In the end, he had resolved to trek to _Terror,_ intending to ask Francis for his belated opinion, perhaps even lift his spirits by showing him James’s chosen costume.

But a quick glance at Doctor McDonald’s departing figure from the Great Cabin told him that there will be no private viewings on _Terror_ tonight. Instead, James is to keep vigil for a man lost in the throes of yet another bad dream.

A layer of sweat forms on Francis’s forehead, trapping the ends of his hair in a wild bramble on his brow. With a decisive nod, James bends down and feels for the latch that will loosen the risers. The rails come down, and he reaches for Francis’s forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze, wishing it will rouse Francis from his terrors. _Here_ , he wishes his touch to convey, _let us fight this together._

James cannot wait until Francis recovers. He cannot wait to see him in his full faculties, to have the tales he has heard about Francis be proven—the daring midshipman Crozier in Parry’s memoirs, the capable Commander Crozier that Ross sings praises of, the outstanding Captain Crozier that Sir John remembered. 

When Francis clenches his fist, James’s hand moves to his wrist and stays there, thumb fleeting over the jut of a vein in angry blue, tracing and retracing until the skin begins to warm.

“At speed, Francis,” James says. He remembers the scrupulous figures that Irving had read from his notebook: _three-quarter rations for 116 men, midwinter._ “I fear time is running out.”

  
  
  


iii.

“It’s Ross’s gull,” Francis says, waking James from his stupor. “He shot one and brought it to England in ‘27, stuffed it with his own bunk’s feathers.” 

James follows Francis’s gaze to the sky above them, to a spot of white and grey tarrying in rich blue, tiny and curious. Its observer is a marvel in himself, blonde head pillowed on a tattered bundle of sailcloth, mismatched fingers drumming a beat on his chest. His lashes glint in the midafternoon sun. “Rather apt for our rescuer, I should think,” James says.

Their boat rocks as someone absconds with a crate of tins. Not the cursed red that they have learned to despise; new ones, safe ones. Around them is a flurry of activity, men setting up camp under the orders of Captain Ross, dignified and regal with a halo of fire.

He had taken one look at Francis, embraced him to the point of suffocation, and ordered him to lie on the boat and accompany his second.

And so it has been for the past three weeks, with James nestled on the boat by order of three separate doctors and Francis accompanying him when they stop for camp. “It was my habit to go birdspotting back at the farm,” Francis says, “and for that I was given my first spyglass.”

Something needles at James’s mind, not quite right. “Wasn’t your father a solicitor?” he asks, too late. Francis smiles and nudges at his elbow, no doubt amused by this proof of James’s indiscrete sleuthing. “Our neighbor’s farm,” he clarifies. “I was always skylarking there and fancied myself as the next owner. Mrs. Folley having no heirs, I figured that her acres would be sold eventually and the land mine someday. But then my father sent me to the navy.”

James tries to imagine this picture of a young Francis, ruddy-faced and knee-deep in mud, and finds that it rather suits him. Good and honest work, quiet, just animals and books for company. For James, it had always been the navy, no more of the Coninghams’s scholarly but taciturn ways. For him, it was to be a life of constant shifting, always hunting for the next adventure.

“I always thought I might retire in such a place—a small cottage with a garden, land for the cows to graze in, some chickens.” The gull above them swoops out of sight and Francis closes his eyes, his thoughts flying across the ocean. James counts the seconds between his breaths. “I never told Sophia,” Francis says. “Perhaps I ought to have examined that further, saved me the trouble.” 

“And now?” James asks. Francis opens his eyes, brown study shaken. “Do you still see yourself retiring to the country and living out your days in solitude?”

Francis meets James’s gaze and blinks. He seems surprised, like a chronometer with its gears suddenly snapping in place. He does not answer; merely looks, and looks, and looks.

  
  
  


iv.

Having no fine examples between the two of them, and no ambition in that direction on his part, Francis has never really given thought to being a father. But somehow he’d always known that James would make a good one.

“My goodness, they are tiny,” James exclaims delightedly, drawing closer to the little black abominations wriggling on the floor. “Will they take Penny’s milk, do you reckon?”

James as a father would be as clueless as a newborn himself, but, as with most things, what he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm. “I should think their own mother’s milk would suffice,” Francis says.

Francis ignores the aching in his joints and kneels to pet Lady Hamadryad between the ears. The brown mastiff lifts its head from the carpet and offers up its chin instead. “Well done, old girl,” Francis says, his tone pleased and proud. At his other side, Neptune pants eagerly. “No thanks to you!”

After setting Lady Hamadryad’s water bowl within her reach, Francis makes for the stairs to retire for the night. His foot is on the first step when he looks over his shoulder at James, knelt in supplication to the blessed scene at their kitchen floor. “Will you come to bed?” he calls out. When James makes no move to have heard him, Francis retraces his steps and gently puts a hand on James’s shoulder. He turns to Francis with a serious expression and says, “Might we keep them?”

Francis makes a considering noise. “All seven? I think not. My sister Charlotte will want one of the girls, to replace her poodle. And Sophia mentioned in her last letter that she’s considering one for her youngest. As for the rest…”

James stands abruptly then, his eyes as large and pleading as Lady Hamadryad’s were on the day she had walked into their barn with a broken leg.

“James, this house cannot possibly contain five puppies!”

“They need not stay indoors after they’ve grown,” James argues with a fervour Francis had not anticipated. He takes Francis’s hands and runs his thumbs across the knuckles, tracing and retracing. “We have more than an acre of idle land for Penny alone. I’m sure she could use the company.”

Francis heaves an exasperated sigh and closes his eyes, already running the numbers for next month’s meat order. “What do you even know of dog rearing?” he asks, aware that he is fighting a losing battle. James gives a very determined pout. “I might learn,” he says. “We both will. We have all the time in the world.”

  
  
  


v.

“Well then, what do you think?” Francis asks. For a while, he thinks that James has fallen asleep right then and there on the back garden, tuckered out from a day of travel, when James stretches his arms above his head and lets out a satisfying groan.

“A fine place,” James says as he settles on the grass, grinning as Francis kneels to join him. Their jackets have been abandoned atop a decrepit bird bath, the foul water mercifully drained by the previous owner. “A bit drafty but I have no doubt that you’ll make a proper home of it.”

“Oh, I think my constitution can endure a little cold,” Francis says. He listens as Neptune makes a commotion running up and down the stairs, probably nosing at dusty windows and billowing curtains. James rolls to his side and puts his head on Francis’s shoulder, with Francis’s arm curving across his back. 

“I couldn’t help but notice though that you have two sets of drawers in the master,” James says. His right hand casually plays with the buttons on Francis’s waistcoat. “Either you have suddenly acquired thirty shirts or your dear Jopson has supplied you with a lifetime’s worth of linen.”

Silence rings between them, the light wind bringing with it the distant sound of blackbirds chirping. Somewhere in the house, Neptune sneezes. 

Francis pulls away and rises to his elbow. He studies James’s face, taking in the meticulously constructed veneer of apathy that James has always been so quick to fashion. “What if I told you that I’m reserving it for my aunt’s doilies?”

A curve of a smile appears on James’s lips. “Francis, you have no surviving aunts.”

“A blunder. I meant my Uncle Colm in Cork.”

“Uncle Colm is from Derry. You sent him a card last Christmas.”

“Derry, Cork—is it not the same coastline?”

“You know very well it is not, you blackguard!” James exclaims in horror amidst Francis’s cackling. “How on earth were you knighted?” 

Their repartee brings the small back garden to life, Francis’s laughter coming out high and airy like an old man’s wheezing. When it subsides, he sheepishly catches James’s eyes, grants him an expectant smile.

_“James.”_

James smiles in return. “Yes, Francis?”

“Would you do me the honour of filling in my closet with me?”

James does not answer. Instead, he brushes a hand across Francis’s chest, takes hold of his lapel, and pulls him down for a kiss.

God, they have so much time. 

Years and years.

  
  
  
  
  
  


+i. 

Once, after a riveting afternoon of keeping the neighbour’s tot from uprooting the garden, James asks: “Do you recall the week we spent in the Orkneys?”

Francis turns over on the bed and grins, revealing the gap between his teeth. “Is this when we imposed on the Raes while the _Enterprise_ was being repaired?” He throws a sly glance at James. “A most vexing experience, if I recall.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, indeed. James—” Francis pulls him closer, arms encircling his waist— “I’m grateful that you’ve stopped pretending to spread-eagle while you sleep. At one point, Dr. Rae delicately took me aside and questioned my bruises. He thought I had scurvy!”

A wicked glint appears in James’s eyes. “Well it worked, did it not?”

“How so?”

“That’s how you fell in love with me.”

Francis pulls away slightly. “James dear,” he says, slowly, “I can assure you that clocking people in the jaw is a highly irregular form of seduction.”

James grins until his jaw aches. “It worked well enough on me,” he says as he shifts closer, burying his nose in Francis’s neck. Like clockwork, Francis sneaks a hand under James’s nightshirt and rests on the small of his back, the heel of his palm pressing in until the skin warms. 

James treasures nights like this, when they would lie awake and speak of years past. His memory fails him in increasing frequency these days—small things at first: the milk orders, where he put down his glasses. And then larger things: how to operate the plough, the alley leading to their favourite grocer, Francis’s birthday. Once, he had found himself standing at the perimeter of their property with Lady Tigris pawing at his waist, with no memory of how he had gotten there.

Francis kisses the top of James’s head and noses at the hairline that has begun to recede. His beard prickles at James’s skin in a way that James has learned to love over the years, like a secret caress that only he is allowed to feel. 

“I don’t know when it was precisely,” Francis whispers. “It may have been while we were out there in the ice, or after we parted ways in Kent and didn’t see each other for weeks. The beginning hardly matters.” Francis lets out an amused huff. “I only know that it comforted me greatly when you held my hand under the table during the court martial, and when it was time to let go, it brought me more distress than the actual proceedings. Does that make sense?”

James’s breath catches at his throat, suddenly overcome by a lingering unease that he has not felt in decades. He clings to Francis’s shirtfront so tightly that he fears it might tear, and it is in this way that he makes a series of promises: He will remember this in the morning. He will remember this a week thereafter and tease Francis about his sentimentality. A year after that, he will remember this and tell Francis how he had fallen in love with him after stashing a hastily scrawled note in a cairn.

“I won’t let go, Francis,” he says. “I swear it.”

Francis holds him and makes soothing noises at his ear, and James lets it wash over him as he closes his eyes. _17th,_ he repeats to himself. September 17th, Francis’s birthday. 

Tomorrow he will remember.

🐝🐈🐝🐈🐝🐈🐝🐈🐝🐈

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/profile) who helped make sense of what this actually was ❤️


End file.
